Teenage Sonneteer
by tsukiyo-rin
Summary: Ichigo is having trouble with a writing assignment until his thoughts turn towards a certain blue-haired menace who seems to be haunting his days recently. Is it coincidence or something more? A better question might be: Is Ichigo ready for the turn his life is about to take?


I was certain I was being mercilessly taunted. By an inanimate object no less. Non-beings shouldn't be able to openly mock me just by existing, yet the page had managed to do just that. Its face blank of everything excepting the equally spaced pale blue lines that ran horizontally within its borders, void of even a stray mark, scribble or pensive doodle. Empty. Vacant. Fresh faced. And infuriating. I was tempted to rest the nib of my pen in one corner, let a small blob of ink pool from the tip and on to the page just to tell it who was boss, but that was completely unproductive and I knew it. What's more, I knew, rationally anyway, that the page wasn't actually to blame for remaining in its pristine state. That honor rest solely with my mind. The tiny voice I was hearing was purely my imagination, an inner monologue of sorts, where I was imbuing the paper with my own self-flagellations. Yes, I talk to myself. No, never out loud. Well rarely. But in my own defense, who doesn't?

So, I'm sure you're wondering about now why it is that I'm sitting here and arguing with myself through a plain piece of college-ruled paper. I would save you the details, but the details really help make the story better, and since the story isn't all the great to begin with... details you get. See, I'm a highschool student, a junior, to be exact. I do well enough in school, despite what people may conclude about me based on my appearance and propensity for getting in scraps. I'm fairly average looking, at least in my opinion; neither tall nor particularly short, kinda on the thin side, but I prefer to think of it as lean. I have brown eyes and naturally bright copper hair. The hair attracts too much attention, most of which I could do without, but I'll be damned if I dye it. I get told I'm irreverent, or just plain rude, a lot, but if you want my respect you have to do more than have a few years on me to earn it. People think I'm detatched, too cool to care about much, an image I like to cultivate since it generally gets people to leave me alone, but what most people don't know is that I care almost too much. Just not about the things they think. I'm not concerned with popularity, or who is going out with who, or which idol is the soup de jour. Honestly, things like that kinda piss me off, and I have enough of a temper without getting entangled in that bullshit, thank you very much. Let see. What else? My dad owns a clinic, which I help out at when I have time. I have two younger twin sisters. I have more than enough friends, who sometimes annoy me to no end, but I love them anyway. And no matter how much I hear it, my name does not mean "Strawberry," and no, you are not the first person to make that connection, and it certainly isn't funny, amusing, or clever. So knock it off.

Nothing earth shattering yet, right?

Now the current problem I'm facing is, I'm sure it will come as great surprise to you, an assignment. For English, to be exact. Mr. Barrett, my English teacher, has the year planned out in to quarter long units of study. This semester happens to be poetry. Reading, critiquing, and most importantly, writing. We are five weeks and three writing assignments into the unit. So far we've had to write an Acrostic poem - an easy, if not juvenile way to start, if you ask me - and a free verse poem that utilized correctly at least three poetic devices that we had studied - alliteration and metaphor were easy enough, but I had to work a little harder to weave assonance in. The current assignment was a sonnet.

Let me explain something right quick. I love Shakespeare. Like, near hero-worship status love. I have at least two copies of every work he produced. Why two, you ask? One to read, markup with notes and musings, and love till the binding threatens to give up the ghost. The other, well, it seems a bit silly. You know how collectors are anal retentive about keeping things in their original packages, keeping it mint? That's how I am with my second copies. There is no logical reason for it, I know, its not as if I don't crack the book open it is suddenly going to gain value in ten or twenty years. Most of them aren't even hardbound editions, but there is a sentimentality to it for me. I can't really explain it as anything else.

With my love for Shakespeare, you would think writing a sonnet would be a no brainer. Yeah, I thought so too. But it hasn't been the case. See a sonnet is more than a sum of it's technical parts. More than a rhyming scheme of a-b-a-b c-d-c-d e-f-e-f g-g. More than employing ten syllables per line. More than finding a natural iambic meter. More than even attempting to craft a volta, an unexpected thematic or image turn, in the third quatrain, as The Bard was known to employ. More than any of the modern takes on the classic form. No. To me, the essence of the sonnet lies in the creating an easy romance that is exemplified by the large majority of English sonneteers. Therein lies my problem. I have little to no experience with romantic love. Nothing real to draw from for inspiration.

You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I'm a hopeless romantic, even if I lack the experience. I know, I know. It is terribly cliched. The irritable teenager with a perpetual scowl on his face dreams of a grand romance filled with adoring glances, stolen touches, sweet kisses and tender whispered words. But, I do. I want to have a serendipitous meeting where sparks fly and my heart races in my chest while I stutter uselessly in awe of the perfection of my instantaneous attraction. Then have the chance, or not so chance, meetings that lead to me figuring out the person behind the face is even more stunning. Followed by a few awkward, but thoroughly charming, dates where we talk about music, literature, and movies that we like, and our aspirations and hope for the future. Then finally, I want that shy, hesitant, but perfect first kiss that is explosive and all consuming for its innocence. I've never had that. Never felt so overwhelmed by another person or my desire and need to simply be in their company. I know it's a very idealized view of relationships, and reality is rarely, if ever, anything like the romance novels I have hidden in the little crawl space above my closet, but some part of me is holding out hope that one day I'll find something that is close.

There is are several reasons for my lack of experience with romance, though if I am honest, they all revolve around one central issue. Girls do nothing for me. Sure, I have plenty of female friends, can appreciate the beauty of one, but their soft curves, delicate features, and subtle sweet scent don't get my blood racing. If you haven't come to the logical conclusion yet, I'll spell it out plainly for you. I'm gay. And I'm not out. And that is the crux of my problem. It is hard to pursue or even invite romantic overtures from an appealing partner if no one knows where your preferences lie.

Before you off and castigate me for essentially creating an issue of my own design, you should know that I am not out not because I am ashamed of who I am. Nor am I afraid of negative backlash from my family, friends, or other people in general. I'm not out because I've had no reason to out myself. Not only do I think it isn't anybody's business who I fantasize about but my own, but I've yet to meet a single person who makes me want to act on my desires. While I've met and seen attractive guys, had my fair share of short lived crushes and infatuations, no one has ignited that spark in me that I so desperately seek. Well, actually, there hasn't been anyone until very recently.

Our first meeting would not be what you could call a good start, and that's putting it lightly. I was walking home from classes about four or five weeks ago blissfully alone. I love my friends, don't get me wrong, I just enjoy having some time to myself without their boisterous personalities and antics which make it nigh impossible to maintain a single coherent thought beyond their nonsense. Anyway, I'm walking home when I hear someone's pitiable sobbing plea for mercy coming from a tight alleyway just a bit further up my path. If you've never heard one of those, let me tell you, it digs at something in your gut so uncomfortably you have to be either completely self absorbed, heartless, or a plain coward not to want to do something about it. Since I am none of the above, I decide to investigate and see what, if anything, I can do to aid this person making the racket.

The first thing I noticed when I rounded the corner was one of the underclassmen, whose name I didn't know, from my school huddled against the unfinished cinder block wall about halfway down the alley, clutching his bag to his chest sobbing hysterically, and blubbering incoherently between wracked breathes. He was being crowded by two older boys who I didn't recognize, but their leering faces spelled trouble. Gods above, I hate against one weren't bad odds for someone like me who held second dan in karate, even if I wasn't currently practicing. The odds were even more in my favour if a fight were the result of my meddling when the gangly teens who would be my opponents appeared as if they had never stepped foot in a dojo and were street brawlers at best. Dirty tactics only went so far when facing off against someone who had my training. I was just about to step into the confined space to put a stop to whatever intentions the two school aged thugs had in mind when I spotted a third boy.

I don't know how I missed noticing him in the first place - I mean, how can you miss someone sporting hair such a shocking shade of blue - but for a few short seconds he had the entirety of my attention. He was tall, taller than me by a few inches, even as he lounged against the opposite wall barely watching the scene in front of him with a bored expression. Beneath the shock of unruly blue hair, his features were sharp, angular and proportioned so perfectly he might as well as have been fashioned after a Grecian or Roman marble masterpiece. Even under his clothes, an off white Henley tee, the sleeves pushed up to reveal corded forearms, and well worn jeans that sat low on his narrow hips, I could tell he was built. More so than any teenager had any right to be really. And then there was the warm tan he was sporting that only served to round out the illusion of him being some sun kissed demi-god of old. Physically, he was perfection, and every single wet dream I had even conceived pieced together. I think I stopped breathing while I just took him in, drowning in the oasis he presented in the depths of awkward teenagers that I usually traversed. If only I could see his eyes. A shrieking sob brought me out of my admiration. As beautiful as this person was, he was ranks with the bullies whose sport had drawn me to the mouth of the alley in the first place, and as such, he immediately lost nearly all appeal to me. A shame, really.

"Oi!" I called out as I stepped into the confines of the alleyway. Four pairs of eyes snapped in my direction and fixed me with differing levels of interest. I really should have been focused on the two crowding the freshman but I must admit I lacked the willpower to fully turn my focus away from the embodiment of sex I was presented with. Especially when said embodiment pinned me with aqua eyes so bright and clear they put shallow tropical seas to shame. There was no thinking this time. I knew I stopped breathing for several long seconds while those eyes traveled down and then back up my body with all the casual indifference as one greets a stranger on the streets.

_**What blue! No earthly sapphire could comprise**_

Huh. That's actually pretty decent. But one line does not a sonnet make. It was a start at least, and a better one than I had made in the past week since receiving the assignment. Too bad I have no idea where to go from there. If I was texting or chatting online with a friend, this is the point where I would *shrug*.

Well, to round off my previous story before I interrupted myself, things went down pretty much how you would expect. Well, not really. The blue haired menace waved his friends off. The freshman scampered away as quickly as his legs would carry him. I stood alone at the mouth of the alleyway facing off against my walking fantasy. It was surprisingly a one on one affair, something that honestly shocked me, but when he landed the first blow all previous confusion of the act went out the window. He may have been a brawler - at least I wasn't too far off in my assessment of the lots fighting style - but those muscles that were concealed from view definitely weren't just for show. Add on top of some serious strength, the reach advantage he held over me because of his height, and the fact that he was surprisingly quick, spry, and agile, and he on his own was more than enough to keep me very occupied. Though it probably didn't help that I kept getting distracted by the beautiful, if not completely manic, smile that split his lips and showcased perfectly even white teeth. The encounter ended after long minutes with the two of us leaning heavily against opposite walls of the alley panting, bloodied and sore, but grinning like fools. After catching his breath, he sauntered down the alley, his friends having buggered off at some point during out fight, with a casual wave of his hand over his shoulder and a jovial "See ya 'round, Copper."

And see him around I did. Not immediately, but a few days later, walking leisurely down the street in one of the shopping districts with his arm casually slung around the shoulders of some busty blonde. Well I shouldn't say 'some blonde' since she was absolutely gorgeous, but my irritability over being so affected by a straight guy over rode any sense of objectivity I might have had at that moment. I wasn't really interested in him, not in any capacity that I even entertained the notion of acting on my obvious attraction to him physically, since a) I don't do bullies, and b) I don't do straight boys. No point. Lost cause and what not. So I squelched the rising jealousy, or whatever it was that I was feeling, and dismissed him from my thoughts. Or so I thought until I saw him again about a week later.

My little sister Karen had badgered and berated me into going to the park with her to run soccer drills since her normal weekend partner Kenta was stuck helping our 'uncle' with his shop. That man, our 'uncle' I mean, is as mad as a hatter, but that's beside the point. The point is that I was stick at the park kicking a ball back and forth with Karen when I saw him again. I really wished I had a name or something better to refer to him as than "the Blue-haired Menace", but regardless, he was there, at the park, chasing after a tiny giggling green haired girl who could not have been more the five or six years old. My first thought was, 'who lets their children dye their hair such colours?' I mean, my hair has caused me enough problems over the years with its intense colour, and its natural. But for a parent to allow or possibly encourage eye catching, and unnatural shades which most definitely attract the wrong kind of attention, because let's face it, children, and some adults for that matter, are cruel, the reasons were beyond me.

With the next thought, my unwise attraction betrayed me. My "Blue-haired Menace" was sporting a wide grin that rivaled the one I had seen in the alley the day of our first meeting, but this one was more relaxed. Content even. It did things to me that were completely uncalled for, and unwarranted. I mean, as far as being a gay man lusting after gorgeous, but undoubtedly straight man goes, any amount of affection could hold dangerous consequences for me. It was doubly true since he himself was a capable enough fighter to give me trouble, if he were to notice my undue attention and decide a fair fight with even numbers was no longer in order, well, I would be in for a world of hurt.

Stupid I am not, but I couldn't help but sneak glances at him while I passed the ball back and forth with Karen. I knew if he caught even half of the looks I was throwing his way, I could be potentially inviting bodily harm upon myself, but watching him as he allowed what I assumed was his sister tackle him to the ground... let's just say it would have taken a stronger man than I to look away from such an endearing sight.

Unfortunately for me, my own little sister was not as 'cute'. Obviously annoyed with my inattention, she chose that moment to send a rocket of a kick my direction. And by my direction I mean, at my face. If my eyes hadn't been memorizing the way bits of grass were caught in his unruly mane of hair, and the early afternoon light danced off the strands, I might have been able to dodge the ball, or back peddle enough that it hit my chest instead, but no. So, ball met face with a spectacular shower of blood and curse words, and I was sent sprawling. Gracelessly, I might add. I hauled myself to my feet feeling more than a bit mortified that I had been caught staring, when my treacherous eyes stole to the side again, and crap! "The Blue-haired Menace" was looking directly at me. Smirking. Great! But, oh Gods! Those eyes...

_**How should I recount best the glory he**_

_**Possesses, nay traps, in those wondrous eyes?**_

Oh. Not bad, Ichigo. Not bad at all. Well, a bit typical honestly, but all things considered, I'll take it. One more line and I'll have the first quatrain done. Progress! Maybe I've been trying too hard, over thinking this assignment if you will. Now to rhyme with "he".

_**More 'thralling a scene could ne'er have dreamed be**_

There. Two quatrains and a couplet remaining, but now I'm back to where I started. I have no idea where to go from here. Well since actively thinking about it has been getting me nowhere fast, to my musings I shall return. Ha! Musings about my muse. Alright, so it wasn't really that funny. Only the thought of having a muse, a flesh and blood person to drive my thoughts, well, you'll only think worse of me if I try to explain why it tickles me so. Let's say the Muses are from Greek mythology, and he reminds me of a Grecian statue, and leave it at that.

I'll skip over our next few meetings, since they were more or less refrains of our initial encounter. I'd see him around with his friends, sometimes harassing people, sometimes just goofing off, but always causing a stir. Sometimes I would try to just walk away, slip by unnoticed and continue on my way, but there were times when I couldn't move one more step, couldn't ignore what I was seeing and those times... those times found us locked in combat; blood pulsing, fists flying, and grins of delight. I have never been one to shy from a fight when I need to, but there was something about fighting him that was different. Fun even. There was a challenge in it, one that was often lacking in schoolyard brawls. But more than anything else, as much as I loathe to admit it, there was a camaraderie in our violent clashes. A mutual understanding. A desire to push, test, strain, and ignite something in the other that couldn't be put in to words easily. I didn't necessarily like him, nor he me, but it was like we couldn't stay away from each other either.

How do I know this? Well, I can easily speak for my own mind. That bit is simple enough. For him however, it was more a deduction of circumstances. Before that first day in the alley, I had never, and I mean never, seen him before. Then suddenly he was everywhere, and with greater frequency, like he was purposely putting himself in places and in situations where he knew I would pass and be unable to just keep walking by. And every time I stopped, every time I intervened in what ever he and his mates were up to, his blue eyes would become lit from within, pass from glacial and disinterested to keen and alive the second they landed on me. I would be lying if I said that having that sort of effect on him, just by showing up, wasn't the tiniest bit flattering.

_**My gaze secures his vision to revere**_

Okay... That sounds a bit creepy stalkerish. Whatever. Moving on.

So, this carried on for a month or so. It wasn't really a fulfilling arraignment, but I didn't want anything more from it. It was a comfortable sort of routine, and, like I said, I don't chase after straight guys. Though I can sure as hell appreciate them. And this guy was worth appreciating, so I wasn't keen on making waves. I made an effort to limit interaction with him to the times we fought, strove to keep from learning his name, and tried to block out anything that might make whatever we were doing more personal. I had no need of complications. I forgot one small thing in my calculations, however. I wasn't the only one who was capable of effecting change.

Change came in the form of a warm afternoon spent walking down by the river. I was having one of my days where company was the last thing I had patience for. I don't even remember what thoughts I wanted to be alone with on that day, but I do remember that they were the sort that called me to my favourite spot under a huge solitary willow that stood sentry at the gentle curve of the river before it entered the urban sprawl of the city. My willow held a surprise for me that day. One that took the form of a pair of ratty Chucks that led up to equally worn jeans covering long legs that were peeking out of the shade. It was rare that someone ventured this far out of town, and even rarer that they would stop. I could say 'Fuck it' and sit down anyway, but like I said, I wasn't in the mood for company, and I hated the idea of sharing my space with some stranger.

Resigned to having to forgo my usual spot on the banks, I cast a mild glare to the person driving me from my sanctuary as I walked past, only to stop dead in my tracks when I spotted blue, blue hair splayed out against the rough bark. My "Blue-haired Menace" was sitting under my tree, reading of all things. If that wasn't enough to give me a moments more pause, then what he was reading definitely was. I immediately recognized the cover, its acid green colour only sporting a single four paneled window along with the title and authors name in black*. I was so fixed on that cover, wondering what it could mean that he was reading it, and why he might have dragged himself all the way out to this less than frequently traveled location to do so, that I hadn't realized that I was moving towards him until I came to a stop just under the swaying boughs.

Our eyes met, and a flurry of unspoken questions passed between us before I managed to find my voice again. Even then, what I managed to push out what only an uninspiring, "Hey." He grunted softly in acknowledgement and then turned his attention back to the pages before him. Deciding he wasn't going to chase me off, and I was feeling particularly emboldened by my discovery, or at least the possible implications of it, I sat beside him and faced the glimmering ripples beyond the green dome that secluded us from the rest of the world.

I let several moments pass by, merely taking in the rustle of leaves, the gentle babble of the water, and the soft swish of pages turning before I spoke again. "Good book?"

Another grunt, this time approving.

"I thought so too," I tossed out casually, even though my heart picked up its pace in my chest, at the loaded admission. I didn't dare turn my head to see what reaction, if any, my statement might have caused in him. After an eternity ticked by with no response, I decided to test the waters of conversation again.

"What part are you at?"

"Eli just woke up in the hospital after a bunch of jocks beat the shit outta him and Wes by the lake."

"Ah. I remember it being pretty intense from there on. I'll leave you to it."

"Yeah."

We lapse back into silence, but instead of the tense withdrawal I had expected, there was an ease to it. We didn't need words before, so I guessed there wasn't really much need for them now. While he read, I settled down to do what I came out to this spot to do in the first place. Only whatever thoughts I had intended on sorting out were replaced by ones of this new development. First of all, I was sharing space with my "Blue-haired Menace" and not a single blow had been exchanged. That put a kink in my theory that I was little more than a very welcome challenge to him. An opponent with whom he could exchange with in the currency of bruises and bloodied knuckles. Maybe the connection we shared when we fought didn't have to remain only there. Maybe it could extend into something more conventional civilized. That thought still made me uneasy, but then there was the book. Not that reading a gay romance novel made the reader gay himself, but then again, teenage boys don't usually go out of their way to voluntarily partake of something that made them uncomfortable. At the very least, this delinquent with aqua lock and electric eyes wasn't disgusted by homosexuality. Maybe he was simply curious. Maybe he had a gay friend. Maybe he simply wasn't closed minded and enjoyed the simple joys of a well crafted story. There were a lot of maybes, but the only one that really mattered was maybe we aren't so different. Then there were the multitude of small details I couldn't help but notice today. The low rumble of his voice when he spoke. The tiny pucker of his brow as he concentrated on the words that marched before his eyes. The wet glisten in his eye that appeared when, I suspected at least, he hit the part where Eli made his choice to let go of Wes. The way his fingers tapped impatiently against the binding of the book like he couldn't take in the words fast enough.

A buzzing from my pocket broke my contemplations. I would bet dollars to dimes it was my dad whining that his only son, me, must hate him if he didn't want to spend his free time with his loving father, and that I was breaking his heart, and so on and so forth. The man was melodramatic on his best days. Insufferable at worst. A glance at the screen of my mobile confirmed my suspicions. I supposed I should head home before I had to turn the ringer off altogether when he invariably decided that one message every 15 seconds became appropriate. Crazy old man.

I pulled myself up, dusted off my jeans, and spared the gorgeous guy beside me a glance while I rubbed sheepily at the back of my neck. A glance he returned with an air of askance.

"Well, I'm heading out. Enjoy the book." I turned to go not expecting any sort of response.

"Grimm."

"Eh?"

"Name's Grimm." Strange name, but I wasn't exactly one to judge.

"Ah. Ichigo."

"Pft. Alright. See ya 'round, Ichigo."

"Later."

.

.

.

Really? Nothing? I was kinda expecting to get more out of that than a handful of clipped phrases. I mean, there is nothing wrong with_** imperfect grace**_ and _**galvanic raze**_ and _**encroaching space**_. Hell, _**reflective wells, clear of pretense**_ isn't exactly drivel either, but it's not like stinted groupings of words actually get me any closer to finishing up the damned poem. I know they're places to start, trains of thought and images worth pursuing, but without proper lines, they are really nothing more than frustrating abstractions. Abstractions for me to wrangle into meaningful tropes. Wrangling means work, thought and deliberation. Something that hasn't been going too well for me thus far. I guess it was too much to expect that allowing my mind to wander would magically produce a completed work of poetic genius. Starting points are better than nothing I guess.

After the day at the river, I didn't see Grimm until the following weekend, which was a little disappointing but I decided not to dwell on it. There could be a thousand reasons why he pulled a disappearing act, but it did me no good to jump to conclusions. Conclusions certainly wouldn't make him come back from where ever he slunk off to. So, no point in fretting over it. It's not like I could do anything about it. I had a given name and a physical description, and that was it. I was not about to go around asking random people if they had seen a guy my age with blue hair, rippling muscles and an attitude problem recently. Yeah. Soo not that desperate.

Anyway, it was the weekend. I had split the previous day doing what I could around the clinic to help my dad and hanging out with my friends just goofing off. I figured I owe part of today to myself, so I biked to the far edge of town where a little privately owned bookshop and coffee house combo sat nestled in the back of the shopping district. It was a quiet place - cozy, warm and inviting - never having more than a few people milling about its confines, and the few that frequented the place were actually fairly decent human beings. At least decent enough not to throw suspicious or assuming glances at me while I was there. A smile and a quick greeting always awaited me when I pushed through the door, and then I was left to my own devices, which I was grateful for. Even more important to me was the fact that I could go there and not have to worry about running into anyone from school, which automatically made it my second favourite haunt when it came to me time.

Once inside, and having exchanged brief pleasantries with the girl behind the counter, I made a decided path towards the back corner that house the shops LGBT section. That was the other thing that made this place a blessing. The big chain stores usually carried a few books with LGBT themes, but rarely anything that could be construed as a gay romance. And that was what I was hunting for today. I had finished the last stack I had purchased a few weeks ago, despite my efforts to make them last a bit longer, so I was back to feed that secret hobby of mine again. Now I just had to decide what I was in the mood for this month; YA, erotica, short stories, drama, comedy, or a good old fashioned "bodice ripper."

I walked up one side of the aisle letting my eyes roam over the spines and covers of the books the sat nestled in the shelves, scanning for words or art work that jumped out at me enough to want to pluck one up and read the back jacket synopsis. Finding nothing of immediate interest I turned the corner to check out the new releases stack, when I literally ran into, you might have guessed it, Grimm, knocking the books he held to the floor.

"Uh. Hey. Sorry 'bout that." Ever so intelligent, right?

He just chuckled as he stooped to gather up the fallen books while I mutely watched and took note of which ones he had selected. A thrill ran through me when I realized that most were titles I had read myself, and all of them were novels centered around gay or bisexual male characters. Hope that it wasn't just a passing fancy of his bloomed in the chest.

"Imagine runnin' into you here."

"Yeah. Imagine that. Though somehow I'm not surprised," I shook my head, fully intending to leave the conversation at that now that I was feeling more than self-conscious in his presence. After last weekend, seeing him at the bookstore now, in that particular section, did funny things to my gut that I would rather not examine too closely while he was near enough to be able to do or say something incredibly stupid. I say I fully intended to walk away because before I could make a clean break, my mouth opened of its own volition one more time.

"I wouldn't bother with book two of the "Rock Bay" series unless you were particularly taken with Drew or Mason in the first book. Book three is worth reading though."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

I made my retreat with a hasty "See ya," and pointedly rummaged through the shelves for the next half hour until I had managed to locate four novels that caught my interest enough to shell out the money for. I tucked myself into a plush arm chair in the corner of the coffeehouse with my purchases and a warm peppermint mocha with the sole intent of frittering away a few hours alone reading. I had just cracked one of my new books when the legs of the chair next to me skipped across the polished wood floor with a groan as a weight settled into it. I peered over out of the corner of my eye and cursed at who I found taking up residence beside me. Again, you guessed it. Grimm.

"What's up, Berry?"

I'll admit I groaned rather loudly at that, and shot him a nasty look. "Don't call me that."

"Why? You're a fruit, aintcha?"

"Oh for the love of..."

"Calm down. Geez, you are easy to rile up."

"Hypocrite."

"What now?"

"I said, you're a hypocrite. Calling me a fruit when you just spent, oh I don't know, $40 on gay literature. Don't think you know me, asshole." I shoved away from the table, ready to leave before I was even more tempted to put my fist through his face. I didn't need to make myself unwelcome at one of the few places I could go without feeling judged for things about myself over which I had no control.

"Sit yer ass down, Ichi."

"Give me one good reason."

"Listen. You're right. I don't know you. But maybe I wanna, alright? Good enough?"

"Gods, you piss me off. Alright. If you're not a hypocrite, then what are you?"

"Gay. Same as you."

"Mighty presumptuous of you."

"Yeah, but it's true, aint it?"

"Whatever."

"That's what I thought." Smug bastard.

_**As two lone wayward souls met may entwine**_

That will probably work for part of the couplet. It has a nice encompassing feel to it. Something leading towards a conclusion of some sort. I may be jumping the gun here with 'intensity' that line, but that's kinda how I felt sitting there in the cafe sipping coffee, skimming through our purchases and getting to know each other. It wasn't flirting at its finest, the conversation was littered with more than a few sparks of temper, but it wasn't much more heated than good natured bickering either. No, I am not going to tell you what we talked about. I think I'm done with details for now, since that little episode has pretty much brought us up to the current. I'm not sure where Grimm and I stand, where we want to go, or what we expect from each other, but I do know that I am more than willing to explore those possibilities with him. Though for now, I should focus on pulling all the wayward threads together into cohesive thoughts and arraigning them into something that resembles poetry.

* * *

**_How should I recount best the beauty he_**

**_Possesses, nay traps, in those wondrous eyes?_**

**_What blue! No earthly sapphire could comprise_**

**_More 'thralling a scene could ne'er have dreamed be._**

**_Lo! What silver tongue could naught hope to ply_**

**_Emotive depths where mirth and fury meld._**

**_Dance! Delight! Take heart whence tremblings art quelled_**

**_In 'flective wells, clear of pretenses lie._**

**_Galvanic raze of nerves compels me near_**

**_With subtle shift encroaching upon space _**

**_Poise mirroring mine own imperfect grace_**

**_My gaze secures his vision to revere._**

**_As two lone wayward souls met may entwine_**

**_Beseech the divine that yours becomes mine._**

Finally finished. I'm more or less pleased with the way that turned out actually. Okay. So I took some liberties with the conventional rhyme schemes. It's somewhere between a Petrarchan and Shakespearean sonnet, but I think it works. Not that the assignment definitively stated we were to stick to one particular form or another. And the volta is more subtle than pronounced in it's shift, but then again, I don't think I care too much about that particular issue.

Far more concerning at this moment is the simple reality that I am going to have to present this, out loud, in front of 20 or so classmates and one instructor. Worse yet, five of those 20 or so classmates happen to be some of my closest friends. If I turn this in, take it to class and put my name to it, I will be in essence outing myself in a very public way. I probably couldn't make a more bold announcement of my sexual orientation if I tattooed "I like cock" on my forehead. I'm not really worried about coming out. I mean, a) I don't give a fuck what people think of me, b) I would be hard pressed to draw more unwarranted attention to myself that I already do, and c) I really don't give a fuck what anyone thinks of me. Let them talk, gossip and speculate. But the really galling part is, my friends are going to know exactly who I'm referring to in this piece, and that opens a whole new can of worms I'm not really sure I'm prepared to deal with. But then again, I've never shied away from who I am, never made purposeful secret of anything important, and I don't want to start now.

So, is this it? Am I going to stick by this poem I've written? Am I coming out?

Damn right I am.

Though, maybe I'd better have a chat with old Goat-face first.

* * *

* Grimm is reading "What's Not Broken" by DJ Parker

Thank you for reading. I hope you all enjoyed this short story as much as I had writing it. If you have the time and inclination, I would love to hear your thoughts. Cheers!


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